Now she was going alone.
“No-show,” he said quietly. “Name of Kowalski. Booked four seats. Only three got on. You’re in.”
“You made it,” she whispered.
Margo had planned this trip for eighteen months. The Dry Tortugas National Park—seventy miles west of Key West, a hexagonal fort rising from aquamarine water like a mirage—was supposed to be her and her father’s final adventure. But cancer had made other reservations.
The Last Ticket
Margo’s stomach turned to conch chowder. “That’s impossible. I have the receipt.” She thrust her phone at him.